


Six Pretenses at Redemption

by kayliemalinza



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End (2007)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Fix-It, M/M, Multi, anti-fix-it, slight gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-06
Updated: 2007-06-06
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:06:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/pseuds/kayliemalinza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hell, apparently, is composed of guilty AUs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Pretenses at Redemption

James wakes up to a bowsprit piercing his bedroom window, a dark line in the soft grey dawn, thrusting gently in time to the water's gentle laps. He slips from the sheets, bare feet on the carpets, his palms drawn automatically to the waiting wood. His fingers chase the bowsprit past the splitting sill and the restless curtains.

The empty deck of the Pearl is an island in a smoky mirror lake, attended by islet rooftops and the far-off reefs of fortress walls; Port Royale is drowned. The bowsprit dips down gently when James lays his arm upon it, a curtsy to his bedroom. He steps upon the ship and crouches on the prow, his nightshirt wrapping tightly around his knees, the hem alighting on a gentle gust of wind. The mast is broken off and cleared away, the splintered remains a lone memorial to seaworthiness, to legendary darkened sails. But there is a huddled mass at the base, a pair of manacles out of place....

James slips from the 'sprit and draws across the deck, gaping at the corpse of Jack Sparrow. His clothes are soaked in mucus, his skin burned red and black by gastric acids, but his grin, his talking hands are all the same.

"Morning, former Commodore. Always a man after my own heart. Or the heart which was previously in my possession."

James steps back as Jack stands up, tattered strips of skin and mucus falling off him.

"I don't have the heart anymore," James says. "I gave it to Beckett."

"An' that's why," says Jack, pressing his fingers to James' chest, "you'll have to give me your own. Just to continue the tradition."

He steps closer, his mouth and tongue on James' cheek, his jaw, his lips; there's the click of manacles, fingers pressed against his chest, sinking _in_ , a searing twist, the sea, and darkness.

* * *

James wakes up to Elizabeth in froths of lace, her face half buried in a pillow. He smiles, lays a tender finger upon her cheek, but it feels like porcelain and her eyes are shined with tears.

"Why did you let me marry you?" she whispers, the fraying end of a strong silk rope. She slides her arm across the bed and pushes the corner of his pillow up into his face. "I'm so bored, James, I'm so stifled, I'm so unhappy, James, why did you do this?" The pillow is soft and white and sweet voluminous; it presses like a veil against his face. It muffles any sound he tries to make. Elizabeth is moaning sadly now. His vision prickles green and gold and then it all goes black.

* * *

James wakes up to a noose above his head and Jack Sparrow grinning in the moonlight. The hemp cravat swings idly from his tar-black hands.

"I was doing my duty," says James, as Jack creeps astride his hips. He shakes his head. "No, I won't hide behind the Law. What I did was right," he whispers, sitting up when Jack bids him to by plucking at his nightshirt.

"Aye, that be true enough," Jack says, his head leaning limply to one side. "It were fair punishment fer doing what I chose. I don't blame ye, James," he murmurs. He slips an arm behind James' back to pull him close, nuzzles at his cheeks before draping the noose around his neck. "But you agree, 'tis only fair I get to do the same." With a languid tug, he pulls the knot, then wraps the rope around his fist and pulls it more. "Sorry 'bout this, luv." He kisses at the bulging skin of James' neck.

James gasps and swallows, clutches fitfully at Jack. His eyes loll up to the ceiling, see the stripes of moonlight curving out. His throat is burning. The ceiling speckles black, and then everything vanishes.

* * *

James wakes up to a trail of swords. One lies at his hip, creasing a valley in the mattress. He leaves his bed and sees that three more swords are laid out on the floor, carefully crossed at tip and hilt and leading to the bedroom door. The folded steel and gilded spirals flicker in the firelight from the edges of the door frame.

James puts a hand to the door knob, bites his lip at its over-warmth and turns it quick. The door flies open like a bellows blast, stirring up some sparks and bits of hay. The donkey circles ever round, its hooves clop-clopping and its breaths half bray, half snort. The fire crackles, spits, and roars; the anvil clangs in rhythm. Mr Turner is half-undressed. His workday shirt is ripped open and falling off a shoulder, soaked into translucency by sweat. The muscles at the join of arm and shoulder ripple; his ribs are jostling like a school of fish. His throat is slit and bleeding.

"Those ghost stories are true," Mr Turner says. His voice is deep and husky and underpinned with rage. "After you turned back to Port Royale, they spilled my blood to lift the curse." James goes forward past the donkey and the spinning wheel of handsome swords. He cannot speak of consequence and difficult decisions. The Navy is a crutch for honour; he isn't capable of a righteousness as pure and effortless as Turner's is.

The blacksmith strikes a final divot on his work and tosses it aside. He grabs a length of twisted iron from the fire and begins again, but James regards the finished thing: a curving dagger, still red hot. The hilt is silver, light and perfect—a replica of _Dauntless_. James picks it up, and at a gentle smile from William, drives it deep into his heart. He blacks out at the next strike of the anvil.

* * *

James wakes up to a shriek outside his window. He leaps from bed and rushes to the sill, but the ground is too far down and filled with jagged rocks. Miss Swann screams again and sinks down into the water. Her cries are swallowed up, her skirt flares outward like a lily on a lake. He turns and Elizabeth is inside his chambers, wrapped in scraps of red. Her breasts are slim and sloping; her belly flexes as she saunters closer.

"You were too late," she says imperiously. "Jack Sparrow found me first. Do you know what he did?"

"I'll have him hanged for it, I swear it," James says, stepping backwards as Elizabeth advances. He should offer comfort but her eyes are blazing and her skin is hot.

"He violated me," she says, pressing thin and supple to his front. "Tore away my corset, ran his tongue along my neck...." She mewls into his ear-shell, fingers scraping jaw and collar. "And then he entered me...." She lifts her thigh and clamps it over his hip, leans against him until James must grab her and lift her up. Her waist is smooth and downy like the inside of an orange rind, but her arms press hard like oars against his neck. "He laughed as he did it. He laughed for joy because he could see I _loved_ it."

"Dear God!" cries James. He's burning from the apex of his legs and it roils upward. It reaches his chest, his neck, and eyes; it claws black marks across his vision and then there's nothing.

* * *

James wakes up to a battle in his bedroom. Lizzie, Will, and Sparrow circle round with flashing swords, clambering on the bed and off of it, knicking corners off the dresser, taking up the pokers from the fireplace when swords are lost or thrown. The bodies whirl and spin; Lizzie's hips all twisted in her shirt, Jack's torso dipping nimbly as he lunges, and the orbit of Will's elbow as he parries. James scrambles from the covers to grab his sword or duck into a corner and he is caught within the melee. Lizzie's sword jabs high into his chest, Jack carves a slit into his belly, and Will's fire poker skewers deeply from behind, just below the shoulder.

"Oh, James!" cries Lizzie. "I never meant for this to happen!"

"Ye should've stayed out of the way," says Jack.

Will shrugs and retrieves his weapon with a _squelch_.

Jack and Lizzie pull back their swords. The blood has disappeared already; their swords are sharp and clean, and glimmer in the sunlight when they start the fight again. James falls to his knees, a bleeding eye inside this dueling hurricane. His limbs are cooling, his fingers tingle harshly. Lizzie, Will, and Sparrow dance nimbly round and leap across him when he collapses. Swords stop clanging; now it's arms and legs, trails of fingers across hips and faces, a drawn-out moan from Sparrow's mouth, Will's tender laugh. Lizzie murmurs _Yo ho ho_ and James' eyes fall gently closed.

* * *

James wakes up to Lizzie, Will, and Jack standing over him. The sky between their heads is white; he hears the oddly muffled sound of surf.

"How will you kill me this time?" he asks.

Will's forehead wrinkles up. "We're not going to kill you," he says.

"Exactly the opposite," says Lizzie, looking worried.

James shakes his head and tries to turn away from them, but there are sand-encrusted boots at every point. "New torment," he murmurs. "No chance for redemption...."

"James, come with us. We want to help you," Will says, and reaches for him.

James shoves a weakling hand at him. "No," he croaks. "No, you don't understand!"

"Now see here," Jack says, pushing James to look at him with a hand on his shoulder, stroking upward to the neck. "The whelps are just a little hazy on the plan. We _are_ going to kill you, we just need you on the boat before we do that, savvy?." He points towards the shoreline, where the _Flying Dutchman_ bobbles on the sea. Will and Lizzie stare at each other, glance at Jack and nod. "There'll be all manner of weaponry and deadly devices," Jack assures him, pulling James to his feet. "And that'll be the last of it."

James leans heavily against him, looks inscrutably at his face. "The last?"

"Aye," says Jack. "Everything will be fully and indisuptably forgiven. Savvy?"

James nods slowly and Jack grins at him, puts James' arm across his shoulders. Will takes him from the other side and his youthful arm clamps tight on James' waist. Lizzie walks in front of them, looking backward with a hopeful smile.

"One foot in front of the other, James Norrington," says Jack, and leads him forward. "There's a good man."


End file.
